


nothing special about the plants

by caffeinefire



Series: Ineffable Responses to an Ineffable Event (2019) [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Day Three Prompt: Land and Sea (and Plants), Established Relationship, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Event, Ineffable Event 2019, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Other, Plant abuse, Post-Apocalypse, but really just plants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 03:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21155234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinefire/pseuds/caffeinefire
Summary: Just the vague aura of “this is a demon’s residence, very dangerous, stay away,” was usually enough to keep anyone a little too curious about the contents of the flat from taking a peek inside.Unfortunately, after having its occupant spend so much time away from it in recent months, the flat’s aura had diminished considerably. In fact, it had diminished to the point that when Crowley went to unlock the door one evening, having decided that a nap was in order after a particularly long round of drinking at the bookshop, he found that the door was already unlocked. Furthermore, it had swung inward slightly after having part of the doorframe pried off. So, unlocked in a certain sense of the word.





	nothing special about the plants

Crowley’s flat had never been home, exactly. It was a relatively safe place to sleep, when he wanted to. It was a place to keep a few items that definitely didn’t hold any sentimental attachment. A large, stone bird from a church of no particular importance, it just looked cool. A TV. A statue that symbolized evil triumphing over good and gave no room whatsoever for any other possible interpretation. It just matched his aesthetic was all.

And a large room of plants. Nothing special about the plants. They were all just disappointments, really.

After Armageddon’s failure, he’d been spending even less time there. There was entire world of places to visit: markets, parks, theaters, French restaurants, wine-tastings, bookshops.

And the flat could function well enough on its own, it wasn’t like it was going anywhere. Crowley stopped in occasionally to make sure the plants were behaving, but he generally didn’t worry about anything else. Just the vague aura of “this is a demon’s residence, very dangerous, stay away,” was usually enough to keep anyone a little too curious about the contents of the flat from taking a peek inside.

Unfortunately, after having its occupant spend so much time away from it in recent months, the flat’s aura had diminished considerably. In fact, it had diminished to the point that when Crowley went to unlock the door one evening, having decided that a nap was in order after a particularly long round of drinking at the bookshop, he found that the door was already unlocked. Furthermore, it had swung inward slightly after having part of the doorframe pried off. So, unlocked in a certain sense of the word.

He kept a carefully neutral expression and stepped silently through the door, pushing it open with two fingers. He relaxed into annoyance almost as soon as he did. He could sense human all over the place, but no one currently present, and nothing demonic that wasn’t himself. He did a quick sweep. TV gone. A couple paintings gone, but not the da Vinci sketch. A few drawers overturned onto the floor. There wasn’t really much to take, and not much furniture to tear apart. Nothing much really out of place until-

Until he reached the garden.

The floor was a mess of dirt and greenery. Smashed pot shards stuck up from mounds of soil, roots toward the ceiling. Crushed leaves and torn blooms.

Crowley let out a strangled cry, cutting himself off as he remembered that the plants were still watching. Waiting for his reaction. Alright. Ok. This could be fixed. A second sweep of the room revealed that the damage may not be all that bad if he acted quickly, but he needed to get the roots back in soil _now._ He was just starting to piece himself together, considering his options when he heard a click behind him and spun at the sound.

“You were s’posed to be _gone,” _he sounded scared more than anything else. A young man, not even wearing a mask. Inexperienced and new to the whole crime gig. This could be fun. “You were _gone _just a second ago, you-,”

“You did this?” Crowley’s voice was low, dangerous. The man gestured uncertainly with his hand, drawing attention to the gun in it, but Crowley was just pissed off enough that he didn’t much care. He took a step forward.

“Stay- Stay there. Where’s all your stuff? I couldn’t find anything. Where-,” his hand was shaking.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” Crowley began to slowly morph his face, letting his glasses slide forward off his nose. Going more for terror than sudden shock. If he could get it just _barely _into the uncanny valley, nightmares were guaranteed. Subtle had always been more his style.

“You-,” the young man’s eyes grew wide. “Just- Just stay there. I’m just gonna grab one more painting and then I’ll leave. I-.”

Crowley took another step toward him.

“I said _don’t move-,”_

Crowley pushed the change just a _bit _further, his teeth elongating. His eyes-

Crowley felt it more than heard it, his face snapping back into place, eyes only as wide as one would expect after having been shot.

“You- you _shot _me!” One hand shot out to brace him on the wall while the other flew to his stomach, where his shirt felt warm and wet. It didn’t hurt yet. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“I- I’m sorry! You- I-,” the man had dropped the gun and was staring at Crowley, eyes panicked and wet.

“You _actually _shot me! I- You-,” the last word descended into a snarl.

“I- I’ll get help. I-,” the young man glanced toward the door.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Crowley sacrificed the hand holding him upright against the wall to _snap-_

And the young man disappeared. Hopefully to someplace singularly unpleasant.

Crowley quickly braced himself again as the pain hit and he found himself struggling to keep his legs underneath him. He turned and leaned back against the wall, fighting the urge to sink down and sit on the floor. He had the distinct impression that if he did that, he wouldn’t be standing again anytime soon.

He lifted his hand a little to get a look at the wound, then cringed and slammed his head back against the wall at the rush of blood and pain. He’d never been any good at healing, and with his vision swimming the way it was he really didn’t feel like focusing to try. He shoved his other hand into his pocket to try to fish out his phone. After a moment he gave up trying to pull it out and managed to get his thumb on the button for a few seconds.

“Call Aziraphale,” he gasped out as another wave of pain hit him.

_Ring._

_Ring._

“Pick up angel, come on,” he whispered.

_Ring._

_Ri-_

He heard his front door slam against the wall.

“Crowley!?”

Crowley rested his head back, and finally let himself slide down to the floor.

“Crowley, answer me, I felt something wrong,” his voice was pitchy with panic, and Crowley felt himself smiling to hear the angel so out-of-sorts for his sake.

“In here, angel,” he called out, hoping it sounded less pained than he felt.

Aziraphale rounded the doorway, eyes wide and terrified.

“_Crowley,” _he crossed the room in a rush and dropped to his knees beside him. “Crowley are you- What _happened _dear- where-.”

“’fraid I’ve gone and got myself sshot,” he murmured, trying for brave and unaffected and landing squarely in pained and fading fast.

“_Shot?_ How-,” Aziraphale’s hands were hovering over his midsection, shaking as he assessed the damage.

Crowley tried to wave off his question, but found he was having trouble lifting his arm.

“Jusssssst ssome half-wit robber,” his sibilants were slipping. Great. “Took care of ‘m.”

“You-?”

“Sssssent him away,” he clarified, then gasped as Aziraphale lifted his hand from the wound.

“Oh Crow-, _Crowley keep your eyes open_. Just-,” Crowley blinked and saw the world in a few quick flashes.

Aziraphale’s jaw clenched, his eyes wet.

Aziraphale shouting something that he couldn’t hear in that frustrated, pouty way he did when he wasn’t getting something he wanted. Crowley frowned, wishing vaguely that he could hear what he was saying, could give him whatever it was.

Aziraphale was crying. Crowley tried to move to comfort him, but nothing was listening to him. And Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him anyway; he was focused squarely on his midsection. He felt the pain fading and tried to fight for a moment, but soon he slipped under.

\--------------

Crowley’s eyes snapped open with a gasp, and before he could try to take stock of his surroundings, Aziraphale was there. Was everywhere.

Crowley was pulled into the angel’s soft embrace, smelling fresh laundry and old dust and very faint ozone. It was warm, and gentle, his body soft but his grip firm. And he was… shaking? Ever so slightly. Crowley was pleased to find his arms obeying him again, so he held the angel in return.

“It’s-,” Crowley started, his voice somehow both louder and weaker than he expected it to be. He cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s just a corporation, angel. It’s alright. I’m alright.”

“And how long do think it would take you to find another corporation now that we’re cut off from our sides, hmm? Frankly, I’m not even sure how to go about doing it properly,” Aziraphale protested, voice growing steadier as he spoke. “And regardless,” he pulled away, hurriedly wiping his eyes as Crowley leaned back against the wall. “You certainly did not _seem _alright. In fact, I’m surprised to see you awake so soon. An injury like that, even with angelic intervention, is nothing to sniff at.”

“I would’ve figured something out. I-,” he paused as he remembered something. “How long have I been out?”

“Barely half of an hour. You should really-,”

Crowley jolted to his feet and immediately regretted it, his head swimming and his entire body protesting the reckless use of energy.

“_Crowley, _you’ve still been shot!” Aziraphale caught him where he swayed and tried to help him back down, but Crowley pushed him away. “Your corporation’s healed but you have to give it time to adjust, you _can’t-,”_

“The plants!” Crowley gasped out, trying to catch his breath after standing so suddenly.

“Plants? What about the plants?” Aziraphale asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

“I have to get them back in the soil, or they’ll never make it,” Crowley was already making his way around the wall, using it for support, his legs moving at an infuriatingly slow pace.

“Crowley, the plants can wait,” Aziraphale scolded, exasperated, “You need to rest.”

Crowley shot him a withering look, which was diminished somewhat by the fact that he was still pale, and shaking, and half leaning against a wall. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Alright, just-,” Aziraphale draped one of Crowley’s arms over his shoulders and helped him limp into the next room, where he sat him against another wall, facing the carnage.

“Okay,” Crowley panted, “I’ll rest here for just a second, then-,”

“Dear, you’re in no condition to-,”

“Azir-,”

“-_in no_ condition to be cleaning up this mess. Just tell me what to do.”

Crowley blinked.

“You don’t have to do that, angel.”

“I’m well aware of what these plants mean to you, my dear. There’ll be no stopping me. Now then,” Aziraphale looked around in anticipation. “Where do I start?”

Crowley looked on the verge of protesting again, then swallowed and cleared his throat.

“Well uh… no miracles. Wouldn’t want them getting any ideas about doing things the easy way.”

“Of course, dear. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Try to keep as much soil around the roots as possible when you’re picking them up, there should be some spare pots and soil in that drawer over there.”

With Crowley directing, it didn’t take long for Aziraphale to get the plants safe and watered, and the floor clear of any excess soil and broken ceramic. Crowley would come back later and nit-pick placement and pot choices (it didn’t escape him that one on the other side of the room was inexplicably tartan, though he was fairly sure it wasn’t intentional. He thought he might keep it, that plant had always been a favorite of his anyway.)

When he was done Aziraphale sat down next to him again.

“Are you feeling any better?” he reached absentmindedly for the demon’s hand and started rubbing small, comforting circles into the back of it.

“Mmmhm, just tired,” Crowley didn’t protest, and curled his fingers around the angel’s hand.

“Rest then, my dear,” after barely a breath of hesitation Aziraphale leaned over a placed a kiss on the demon’s cheek. Before Crowley could work up the energy to blush, he continued, “Where did you send the bastard who did this, anyway?”

The start of Crowley’s flustered sputtering turned quickly into a laugh.

“_Language, _angel,” he teased. “’m not sure though. Didn’t really think about it. Probably somewhere miserable.”

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale agreed wordlessly.

Several hundred miles away, a young man was struggling to orient himself in the middle of an early-renaissance historical fair, a place he almost _definitely _hadn’t been an hour ago, and promising God quite fervently that he would _never _break into another flat, and probably start taking classes at the local community college if he ever found his way back to _local._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @caffeinefire on tumblr! This is in response to @ineffable-event on tumblr!


End file.
